


a different point of view (see things my way)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Betrayal, F/M, One Night Stands, POV Multiple, POV shift, Sex Pollen, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>POV-shifts of various fics and drabbles.</p><p>New on 7/28: Chapters 8, 9, and 10</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grant: i'm not falling in love (i'm just falling to pieces)

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, no one will be shocked to hear that I still owe review responses, because I am the worst. I'm sorry! I'm working on them!
> 
> Second, all of the stories contained within are responses to prompts I received for a meme I did on my tumblr, in which I invited people to send me the title of one of my fics, and I would write a snippet of it from another character's POV. I still have several unanswered prompts, so this collection might get expanded, but these are the ones I've done so far.
> 
> Third, title comes from "Gonna Change the World" by S Club 7, a song which has absolutely nothing to do with these fics. I just got the two lines stuck in my head, and they particularly fit the point of the collection, so--*shrugs*.
> 
> I think that's it! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous said: "Ward in i'm not falling in love (i'm just falling to pieces), please? (Going with the assumption he's real, that is.)"
> 
> [i'm not falling in love (i'm just falling to pieces)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2771669)

Grant is well aware that he’s not a good man.

No good man could make a decent specialist, and Grant is so much more than _decent_. He’s one of the best, with all that it implies, and the mix of pride and shame he carries for the work he’s done is something only another specialist could understand.

He’s felt his fair share of guilt. He’s suffered the flashbacks and the nightmares that are part and parcel of specialist work. There have been days when he’s thought he would never get the smell of death out of his nose, where he’s felt like everything he’s ever done has stained his hands for all the world to see.

For the blood he’s spilled, the lives he’s taken, the horrible deeds he’s committed in the name of maintaining his various covers…he carries that guilt constantly, and it only builds with each mission he completes. After eight years? It’s a lot of guilt.

And all of it combined can’t compare to what he feels looking at Jemma right now.

She’s dwarfed by the shirt she’s wearing, which is definitely one of his. Usually the sight of her in his clothes is a turn-on (he is nothing if not a possessive man) but it’s hard to find any satisfaction in it right now. It makes her look that much smaller, and she really doesn’t need the help.

Jemma has always been small—petite, as she’s often insisted—but only deceptively so. She’s brilliance and sunshine wrapped around a core of pure steel, and has been since the moment he met her. She’s stubborn and strong and unbending, tough enough to bear not only her own burdens but his as well. He learned long ago to see past her small (tiny, he used to tease her) stature and see the strength beneath.

But not anymore. Between the weight she’s lost (far too much—has she eaten at all in the last month?) and the look on her face, it’s hard to think of her as anything but delicate. Fragile. Like a harsh word or a stiff breeze might shatter her.

He did this to her.

She backs away from him and cries and insists that he isn’t real, and even as he calmly tries to convince her otherwise—even as he tries to prove, through touch and sight and sound, that he really is standing in front of her—he’s slowly drowning in guilt. She flinches when he touches her, and shame claws at him with burning fingers.

He never should have agreed to the deception.

He finds himself trying to explain, in between attempts to convince her that she isn’t hallucinating. It isn’t the time for it—not when Jemma so clearly thinks she’s in the midst of a mental break—but he can’t help himself. He needs her to know, to understand, that he didn’t do this on purpose.

The lie wasn’t meant to last anywhere near this long. It was only supposed to be for a few days—not even long enough for them to hold a funeral. He knew that she would mourn—that she would _suffer_ —but it wasn’t supposed to be this bad. He figured she would spend a day or two crying on Fitz’s shoulder, and then the truth would come out and he would spend the next decade or so making it up to her.

Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that it would stretch out to more than a month. If he’d known—if he’d had any idea—he never would have agreed.

Letting the target think Grant was dead was the best way to bring him out of hiding, he knows. They spent weeks debating it, drawing up and discarding strategy after strategy after strategy, and the one where he faked his death was the _only_ one (out of literal dozens) that wasn’t likely to cause collateral damage. All of their other plans would have resulted in heavy civilian casualties.

But he would rather watch a hundred innocent people die than see this look on Jemma’s face.

By the time they realized that the mission would take more than a few days—that the target (a man who doesn’t deserve the courtesy of a name; it’s not often that Grant uses words like _evil_ in earnest, but it’s the only one that really applies) was paranoid enough to continue his precautions past the point of the death of the only person he knew was after him—it was too late to back out. Revealing that his death had been faked would only have justified the target’s paranoia and driven him further into hiding.

He told himself that Jemma would be all right. He told himself with Fitz there to take care of her, and Barton and Romanoff—pulled off the mission to lend credence to the lie—to protect her, she would make it through okay.

He was fooling himself, of course, but it wasn’t until he successfully completed the op—until he returned to the Triskelion, only to be told that Jemma had taken her bereavement leave and disappeared—that he realized by how _much_.

He supposes he should consider himself lucky, that Jemma was too distraught to really hide. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth—the idea that he should be _grateful_ for his wife’s suffering doesn’t sit well. But it was easy to find her: once he ran a check on her passport and discovered that it had been used to enter France, he knew exactly where she was.

If she had made any attempt at hiding—if she had put that genius brain to work in covering her tracks—he might still be looking. And they’ve been apart for long enough already.

No. Not long enough. _Too long_.

She keeps repeating that he isn’t real, and the guilt multiplies every time she says it. Between her tears and her obvious fear and the expression she’s wearing—every single second of the last month is written in the lines of her face—he’s being crushed under the weight of it.

He’s angry at himself—furious, really—and it makes his voice sharper than he intends it to be when he asks her why it’s so hard to believe that SHIELD would lie.

“Because you wouldn’t do that to me,” she says, and her words hit him like a punch to the throat. “You wouldn’t leave me unless you had to.”

Oh, look. More guilt.

She thinks so much better of him than he deserves. She always has, and he’s always known it, but this…

He thinks maybe looking her in the eye would help—help her, that is; all it will do is bring him more pain, and fuck, does he deserve it—so he lifts her to sit on the counter.

(The first time he brought her here, for their anniversary four years ago, she sat in that exact spot while he made dinner and they talked about marriage. She was the one who brought it up, and the ring he had purchased months before was burning a hole in his pocket the whole time. Later that night, after he proposed—after she said yes, after they celebrated—she laughed and apologized for stepping on his moment. _Great minds think alike_ , he said.

They spent part of their honeymoon here, and their anniversary the following year. They have so many good memories here, and the thought of her sleeping alone in the bed they’ve shared so often, crying and mourning him for _no reason_ , causes him actual, physical pain.)

He apologizes some more, promises he’s not dead, and then—because he honestly can’t stop himself—because even when she’s crying, even when she’s pale and fragile and far, far too thin, she’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen—because she spent the past month mourning him, but he spent it _missing_ her—he kisses her.

He means to keep it light, because he has no right to kiss her right now and he knows it. But she takes it further, and he doesn’t deserve it (deserve _her_ ) but he goes along with it anyway, because he doesn’t have the strength not to.

He wonders if the kiss—if the way she slides her hands up under his shirt and squeezes his sides with her knees—is a good sign. If maybe she’s starting to believe him. When they finally draw apart, he has to ask.

“Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know,” she says, and his heart sinks. Not because she doesn’t know—although, yeah, that’s bad—but because of the tone she uses when she says it. Usually, an _I don’t know_ from Jemma is a cheerful, excited thing. She loves it when she doesn’t know things, because that leaves room for research—for discovery—and there are very few things she likes better than research.

She doesn’t sound excited now, though. She sounds tired. She sounds _defeated_.

“But I’m willing to try,” she finishes.

He can work with that, and tells her so. It will take time, he’s sure. If she won’t believe her own senses—if kissing him and being held by him isn’t enough to convince her—he doesn’t know that hearing confirmation from others will do the trick. Getting her to accept that he’s really here is going to take time and patience, and he _knows_ that every second of it is going to _kill_ him, because she’s not supposed to doubt herself. Not like this.

It’s not just that he left her alone to mourn him for a month, although that was a fucking awful and cruel thing to do to her, for which he will definitely be apologizing on a regular basis. Her pointless, wasted tears are a mark against him and always will be, but they’re not the worst of it.

He’s shaken her faith in her own mind. He doesn’t know that she’ll ever be able to forgive him for it. He _does_ know that she shouldn’t.

She asks if they can pretend, for a while, that everything is okay—that she really does believe he’s here—and of course he agrees. Whatever she wants, whatever she needs, is hers. He’s going to spend the rest of his life making this up to her.

So he returns her hug, bears the weight of his guilt, and closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at his reflection in the window behind her. He doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t deserve _this_.

He never did.


	2. Grant: married in vegas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cinnamonfa said: "Can I request the Married in Vegas drabble from Ward's point of view? Pretty please!"
> 
> the [married in Vegas](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2257212/chapters/5002833) drabble

Movement wakes him, and he’s instantly on edge, ready to cross off whichever enemy is stupid enough to think that just because he’s not awake he’s not a threat.

Then he processes the situation—the soft skin pressed against his and the familiar soreness in particular muscles that suggests a night spent in pleasant exertion—and relaxes slightly. Not a threat, he thinks. One night stand.

As soon as he relaxes, his hangover makes itself known, and pain hits him right between the eyes in a pounding headache. He swears and rolls away from the woman ( _woman_ , fuck, he doesn’t even remember meeting her, let alone her name; getting _that_ drunk was a fucking stupid move) to lie on his back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Seriously. Ow.

He’s had worse, obviously—much, much worse—but there’s something about a hangover. It’s a very distinct kind of pain that can turn even the hardiest of specialists into absolute children. He, personally, is generally more mature than that, but he’s seen it happen.

He feels the bed shift as the woman climbs out of it, hears her walk across the room. Even through his pain he analyzes it, assessing her as a potential threat. It’s possible (anything’s possible), but somehow he doubts it. She doesn’t sound like she’s got training—her breathing and her footsteps and the sheer amount of _noise_ she makes as she does whatever she’s doing all spell civilian.

That’s something, at least. He didn’t bring a trained assassin back to his room (is this his room? He hopes not; it’s so much easier to make excuses and escape someone _else’s_ room), just some random woman.

What was he _thinking_ last night?

He knows what he was thinking. He was thinking that the op he just finished was a complete clusterfuck and he wanted to forget it. He wanted to just _not think_ —just for one night.

Well, mission accomplished.

Getting black-out drunk was fucking dangerous, on a number of levels, but at least all he did (or he _hopes_ all he did) was pick someone up. It could’ve been worse. It could have been much, much worse.

The bed shifts again as she gets back into it.

“Here,” she says, nudging him. “These might help.”

He pulls his hands away from his eyes to look at her. She’s a gorgeous woman (wearing his shirt, and that’s never been his thing, but _damn_ ), and she’s currently offering him a bottle of water and two small, white pills.

“They’re just aspirins,” she says. “You can trust me; I’m a doctor.”

She’s also British. He doesn’t have much of a thing for accents, either—being multilingual himself, they’re really not that big a deal—but he likes hers. It’s…warm.

He laughs, more at himself than at her, and sits up. The pills do look like aspirin, and after a brief internal debate—weighing the way she sits, the lack of the distinct calluses people in his line of work develop (although she does have some interesting ones) on her hands, and the current pain he’s in against the possibility that she’s an enemy who’s just really good at playing harmless—he takes them.

He’s peripherally aware of her fidgeting—she’s obviously feeling uncomfortable with the situation—so he’s not surprised when she breaks the silence to introduce herself. He _is_ surprised that she offers him her hand, because really, who does that? Who offers a _handshake_ after a one night stand?

He finds it weirdly endearing, though, and can’t help but laugh. This woman—Jemma—is somehow simultaneously gorgeous and adorable, and he has to compliment himself on his taste. Getting black-out drunk was a horrible idea, but picking Jemma up definitely wasn’t.

“Nice to meet you, Jemma,” he says, and gamely shakes her hand. “I’m…”

The fake name dies on his lips, because just before he says it, his eyes catch on her left hand (currently resting against the mattress)—or, to be more exact, the _ring_ on her left hand.

That…looks worryingly new.

She frowns a little, eyes searching his face, and then follows his gaze. The way she goes abruptly pale does _not_ fill him with confidence. Neither does the realization that _he’s_ wearing a ring, too.

The certificate he finds on the nightstand pretty much settles it. Apparently, he was not only drunk enough to forget picking up a gorgeous woman and bringing her back to her hotel (and it must be hers, because it’s definitely not his)—he was also drunk enough to forget _marrying_ her.

Well. Fuck.

Jemma (Simmons, originally of Ashburton, England according to the certificate) is clearly panicking, and he can’t exactly blame her, but hyperventilating won’t help anything, so he talks her through it. She apologizes and asks what happens next, and he can’t really think about that—because fuck, he was drunk enough to think that marrying a complete stranger was a good idea; he is _never_ going to live this down—so he suggests they get dressed.

It’s kind of a shame. She really does look amazing in his shirt.

He’s just pulling said shirt on when one of the cell phones on the other nightstand vibrates, and Jemma picks it up to check it.

“Grant,” she says. “You’ve got—oh! You’re with SHIELD!”

He freezes. SHIELD is so highly classified that the average civilian doesn’t even know the name. If Jemma not only knows the name, but knows enough to deduce that he works for SHIELD after a quick glance at what must be _his_ phone…

She’s nowhere near the random civilian he thought she was, and suddenly this whole _woke up married_ thing takes on an entirely new dimension.

Before he can get too far into considering his options, however, she speaks again.

“No, it’s all right,” she says, dropping his phone and holding her own out for inspection. “I’m a SHIELD agent, as well.”

“Are you?” he asks skeptically.

That’s stretching coincidence a little far for his taste. That two (well, three, counting Trip) SHIELD agents might be in Las Vegas at the same time, sure. That they might run into each other, less likely. That they might end up getting _married_ , despite being complete strangers? Pretty far out of the realm of probability.

But her phone, when he takes it, is clearly part of SHIELD’s communication network. It has the SECCOM display, same as his, and if it’s a fake it’s a very, very convincing one.

“I’m with SciOps,” she tells him, as he stares at the display. “Level Four biochemist.”

Now _that_ rings a bell, and he freezes, remembering the name on the marriage certificate. No way.

“Simmons?” he asks. “As in _FitzSimmons_?”

If he accidentally married one of SHIELD’s brightest, most famous scientists, Trip is _never_ going to let him forget it. Also, he might get court-martialed for defiling a valuable asset. That feels like something SHIELD might do.

“You’ve heard of us?” she asks, which is as good as confirmation.

Shit.

“Hasn’t everyone?” he counters, trying to play it off. As he does so, another potential complication occurs to him. “But I thought you and Fitz were…”

“Oh, no,” she assures him. “Strictly platonic.”

Well, that’s a relief.

…Because he doesn’t need one of SHIELD’s main engineers to have a grudge against him, obviously. Not for any other reason. What other reason could there be?

He knows what other reason.

He finds himself hesitating over the idea of divorce. It’s the obvious solution—the only _logical_ course of action—and yet.

And yet.

Something—some instinct or sixth sense or _whatever_ —tells him that if he lets Jemma walk away, it will be one of the biggest mistakes he’s ever made. And that’s really saying something; he’s made a lot of mistakes in his day.

He can’t say why, but he feels like—he _knows_ —he can’t let this end right away. He can’t pretend this never happened. He doesn’t _want_ to.

He maybe plays her a little, turns up the charm and touches her deliberately, trying to fluster her, but he doesn’t think he can be blamed for it. This is so clearly crazy, asking her to remain married to him—a complete stranger—for any longer than is absolutely necessary, and she’s a scientist. Logic is literally her job.

So he’ll take all the help he can get in convincing her to wait.

“So, doctor? What do you say?” he asks. “Let me take you to breakfast, talk a little before we make any decisions?”

She hesitates. He holds his breath. He doesn’t know why this is so important, but it is. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she says no.

“Very well, Grant,” she says, and he’s never been so relieved. “Lead the way.”

It’s not a guarantee. It’s just breakfast.

That’s all right. Everything has to start somewhere.


	3. Grant/Death: mistress of death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> azariastromsis said: "For the POV switch, I'm requesting Mistress of Death from Grant's POV or Ward discovering Simmons is HYDRA from Jemma's POV. :D :D"
> 
> the [mistress of death](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2257212/chapters/5304398) drabble

Violent Death is a busy man.

(For certain values of the word _man_ —he’s far beyond human, but the English language has certain…constraints that mean it can’t really cover his actual state of Being.)

People are dying every minute of the day, and even though he’s not responsible for all of them—even though his brethren Death of Illness and Death of Old Age bear some of the burden—well, when it comes to the human race, _some_ is still a lot.

Beyond the basic random acts of violence—murders and muggings and car jackings and vengeful spells—that violently end lives on a regular basis, there are currently twelve major wars happening in various places across the globe. He doesn’t need to be present at _every_ violent death (and thank the ages for that; he’d never get anything else done), but each one creates more work for him.

So, again. He’s a busy man.

Today, the Mage War that has been raging in the southern hemisphere for the last three years peaked again. Mages are dramatic, given to fighting en masse on battlefields, like the soldiers of old, and their latest encounter has left him with quite a mess to clean up.

He’s been wandering the battlefield seeing to souls for nearly three hours when, abruptly, he is no longer alone. One of his Assistants—or Angels, as they prefer to be called (the Angels of Death, properly, and he’s always thought it an odd choice, but as long as they do their jobs well—and, to their credit, they do—he doesn’t care what they call themselves)—appears behind him in a sudden rush of wind.

“Death.”

“Raina,” he says, straightening from where he has been crouching next to a mage who died a particularly painful death. “What is it?”

Raina is assigned to the northern hemisphere, and in any case bears a strong grudge against mages, dating back several centuries. She wouldn’t willingly visit this place—teeming with mage souls—unless she had a very, very good reason for it.

“The spells guarding the Lady have activated,” she says, and watches him as he stills. “Would you like us to see to her?”

He takes a moment to calm himself, to put his rage aside. The Lady, as his Assistants/Angels persist in calling her (in response to her own distaste for the term Mistress, and he’s given up on explaining that he is _not_ the one who comes up with these titles), is Jemma—the woman ( _actual_ woman, actual fragile, human woman) that he loves.

If the spells around her have activated, it means she’s in danger. Again.

Before he met Jemma—before he saw her, on a battlefield much like this one, and was instantly captivated—it had been millennia since last he struggled to control his emotions. Now, it happens on a fairly regular basis. It’s inconvenient.

Once he’s calm, he reaches out to check the little thread that connects them—the little bit of his Power that has kept her alive and ageless with him for decades—and determines that she is concerned, but not terribly frightened. She’s unharmed, then.

His Assistants/Angels could have her safely home and her captors punished mercilessly in moments. They’ve done it before—this is far from the first time Jemma has been kidnapped, and unless she agrees to marry him tomorrow (unfortunately unlikely), it probably won’t be the last—and they do the job admirably.

Still. He itches with the need to _personally_ teach her captors a lesson. Violence is more than a part of him, it’s his reason for _existing_ , and every inch of his Being urges him to use it now.

Raina is still watching him, with a gaze that more than one lesser being has called _eerie_.

“No,” he says finally. “I’ll take care of this myself.”

There are already several of his Assistants/Angels walking the battlefield, seeing to the souls of the dead, and he summons more of them with a single Thought. The dead will keep, of course, but Jemma does get so upset when he neglects his work on her behalf.

He reaches out with his Power again, determines Jemma’s location, and prepares to go to her. Then he pauses.

“Raina,” he says, and she straightens. “I will see to Jemma and her captors. _You_ will look into how they found her and determine whether there were any third parties involved.”

“And if there were?” she asks.

“Deal with them,” he orders flatly.

She smiles. “With pleasure.”

Assured that the situation is in good hands—Raina isn’t the most ruthless of his Assistants/Angels, but she _is_ the most cunning—he reaches for his Power once more. It’s only a second’s Thought to move from the battlefield to a point not far from Jemma’s location, and he smiles to himself when he senses the souls within the building.

One is Jemma, and soon she will be safe once more. The rest will soon experience Violent Death in a manner that very few, over the ages, ever have.

It’s unfortunate (for them) that they won’t have the chance to recognize the honor.


	4. Jemma: five times they have sex (and one time they don't)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous said: "5 times they have sex (and one time they don't)"
> 
> the [five times ward and simmons have sex](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2257212/chapters/5075135) drabble

Jemma is no stranger to casual sex.

She’s had her fair share of romantic entanglements, of course—of walks in the parks and date nights and surprise trips to science museums—but the fact of the matter is, when it comes to her particular lifestyle, casual relationships are simply more convenient.

A so-called _friend-with-benefits_ carries less complication: none of the inevitable jealousy over her relationship with Fitz, no hurt feelings when she cancels plans in favor of monitoring an experiment, no mess about anniversaries and meeting families and remembering to make _gestures_ around her very busy schedule. She has hopes of romance someday, of a husband and children and the proverbial picket fence, but for the moment, casual sex is much more practical—and Jemma is nothing if not practical.

So, she has plenty of experience with casual sex. She’s used to the balance of it, to seeing nothing beyond friendship in the everyday behavior of a man who has touched her in ways that are distinctly more than friendly. She’s never had any trouble keeping the lines straight, and she doesn’t anticipate having any trouble doing so with Ward.

And for the most part, she doesn’t.

However…

She doesn’t think it’s her imagination that he’s different with her, after. Not right away—not at first—but, gradually, she realizes that he treats her differently than he does the rest of the team. He’s…softer with her, less closed off. He still gets into his little moods, times when he’s snappish and unapproachable for no apparent reason, but even when he’s a complete prat to Fitz and Skye, his voice gentles as he speaks to Jemma.

He doesn’t shy from her touch the way he does everyone else’s, and while _that_ might be down to their sexual encounters, she’s surprised to realize, in retrospect, that he never really has. Even on their second day as a team, when she dragged him into the lab to examine the bullet graze he received in Peru (several hours _after_ he received it, after the Bus was hijacked and they all nearly died and Skye tattled on him as soon as they landed at the Slingshot), all he did was roll his eyes as she shoved his shirt up to check his side.

He tenses when Fitz slaps his back, stays carefully out of Skye’s range, and exudes very blatant _keep away_ signals in Coulson and May’s directions, but for her? He sighs and acts like it’s a chore to tolerate her concern, but he never shoves her away.

After the first time—after he saves her life when she throws herself from the Bus—he teases her. He mimics her impersonation of him, laughs when she corrects it, and doesn’t disappear the moment she’s distracted by Skye. In London, she’s on edge digging through the rubble, and he doesn’t make her feel foolish for it. In Norway, she hesitates to go up the tree, and he offers comfort and encouragement.

He’s kinder with her—almost sweet. She tries not to make anything of it, but…it’s very noticeable.

She doesn’t have any trouble keeping things separate. She and Ward are friends (if that) who occasionally sleep together, and that’s all. Still, sometimes, when he smiles at her or sits next to her at meals or seeks her out for nothing more than conversation…

Sometimes, she looks at him and she thinks _maybe_.


	5. Jemma: one night stand causes pregnancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sapphireglyphs said: "Okay, may I please get a continuation or a POV shift for the one where Jemma tells Grant she is pregnant after their one night stand please? :D"
> 
> the [one night stand causes pregnancy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2257212/chapters/5018520) drabble

Jemma has thought about having children, of course.

She likes children, and she likes to think she’d make a good mother. Children have always been on her agenda. However, it’s always been a distant sort of want—a someday, so to speak. _Someday_ she’ll find a man, fall in love, get married, and get pregnant. _Someday_ she’ll be a mother. _Someday_ she’ll have children.

Someday comes much sooner than she anticipates.

She doesn’t want to believe it, at first. She recognizes the symptoms, of course, and the timing is right, but—she doesn’t want to believe it, because she doesn’t want it to be true. But she takes the home tests and they’re positive, and she goes to the doctor and the result is confirmed, and the next thing she knows she’s past the first trimester and it’s no longer _someday_ , it’s _today_.

Which means it’s probably about time to inform the father.

Jemma has been best friends with Skye for ten years, and she’s had a crush on Skye’s brother Grant for just as long. She knew that the decision to sleep with him was a bad one as soon as she made it—mostly because he made it clear that it would be a one-time thing, meaning she was essentially ruining her chances—but how could she resist? He’s just so…so _Grant_. It was obviously the only chance she was ever going to get (ten years! It took _ten years_ to reach the point of a one-night stand), and so she took it.

She sincerely regrets it now.

Still, they’re going to be parents. Or, she’s going to be a parent. She’s going to be a mother, and if he so desires, he can be a father. If not, she’ll do this alone. She’s perfectly capable of it, she’s sure. She earned two PhDs before she was seventeen; raising a child can’t be _that_ much more difficult, can it?

(She’s not fooling anyone, including herself, with that one. A child is a life-long commitment, which will require a significant portion of her time, attention, and effort. Not to mention love. But she’s resolved; she wasn’t expecting to have a child so soon, but now that she’s getting one, she doesn’t intend to give it up. She can do this.)

Informing him is really more of a courtesy than anything. If he wants to be involved, good. If not, also good. Probably better, in fact, because somehow she doesn’t expect that he’ll want her any more as the mother of his child than he does as Skye’s best friend, and spending the next eighteen years or so having her face shoved in the fact that the object of her affection feels nothing for her won’t be fun.

She sighs and forces those thoughts away. It’s ridiculous, the way even the _thought_ of Grant can turn her into a foolish schoolgirl, the likes of which she never really was.

She’s going to be a _mother_. It’s probably time to grow up.

Still, she can’t bring herself to contact him directly. Instead, she passes the word through Skye that she’d like to meet him for lunch. It’s only sensible, isn’t’ it?

This really is the sort of news better given in person.


	6. Jemma: sometimes (i find it hard to believe), chapter fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darkangelcryo said: "Sometimes chapter 15 Jemma and May"
> 
> [sometimes (i find it hard to believe), chapter fifteen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1854637/chapters/5182829)

Jemma and Skye are in the middle of another debate about the exact definition of _rest_ when Coulson appears in the doorway.

“Would you _please_ just _stay there_? You need sleep, not to go gallivanting about—oh, sir, I didn’t see you there! Would you be so kind as to tell Skye to stay put? Appeals to her common sense aren’t working, so perhaps a direct order—”

“AC, tell her I’m fine! I survived two bullets, I think taking a _walk_ will be o—”

“Barely!” Jemma interrupts, frustrated. “ _Barely_ survived two bullets, and that was only thanks to a drug about which we know _nothing_ , so really—”

“Simmons,” Coulson says quietly.

She turns to look at him properly, and the look on his face knocks the breath right out of her lungs. She’s seen that expression only once before, when he told her he was sorry and hit the button to quarantine the lab.

It’s not a happy look.

She swallows. “Sir?”

“Lorelei got Ward,” he says plainly.

Jemma feels, as though from several miles away, Skye take her hand and tangle their fingers. It helps (a bit) with the sudden wave of emotions that have overtaken her. She takes a moment to breathe through her panic—she’s a scientist; it’s important to keep a clear head—and then forces herself to focus.

“When you say _got_ ,” she says, and falters. Skye squeezes her hand.

“She brainwashed him,” Coulson clarifies.

It’s better than _killed_ —much, much better, although of course if Grant had been killed she wouldn’t need Coulson to tell her—or injured, but it still makes her chest tight.

She wonders, distantly, if the word _Asgardian_ haunts him, the way _Chitauri_ haunts her. They haven’t spoken about it, not in those terms. They haven’t spoken about it much at all, not since the days immediately following his exposure to the berserker staff.

(She remembers the morning after, lying in bed in that hotel room in Belfast, when he admitted that though the strength was gone, the rage wasn’t, and quietly confessed his terror at the prospect of losing control.

And she remembers the awful, painful way he laughed, as though the sound was being scraped out of him, when she said she understood.

“You really don’t,” he told her, and his voice was so raw, it was impossible to be offended. “Jemma, you have no idea what I’m actually capable of.”

She thought of the hijacking in Peru and of Fitz’s account of the events in South Ossetia, and asked, “Don’t I?”

“No,” he said. “You don’t.” His arms tightened around her and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and his voice, when he spoke again, was low and almost broken. “And I really, really hope you never find out.”)

“Simmons,” Coulson says sharply, and it pulls her out of the memory.

It does not, however, make her forget that losing control is one of the things Grant fears most, and she has to swallow twice before she can speak.

“What can we do?” she asks. “What—How do we get him back?”

“Lady Sif says that putting the collar on Lorelei will break the spell,” he replies, then crosses his arms. “But there’s a problem. The collar was damaged in the…scuffle. Fitz is looking at fixing it.”

There are countless unknown variables involved in that collar. Asgardian science is so advanced as to be essentially indistinguishable from _magic_ to their eyes, for goodness’ sake. The chances of Fitz being able to fix it before anything horrible happens to Grant—before he’s made to _do_ anything horrible—are…miniscule, at best.

But Fitz is a genius—the smartest person she knows. She’s seen him accomplish amazing things. If anyone can fix that collar, he can.

So all she says is, “Good. That’s…good.”

“So, wait,” Skye says, and squeezes Jemma’s hand again. “Is Ward some kind of…pod person now?”

“No,” Coulson shakes his head. “According to Lady Sif, the men Lorelei controls don’t forget who they are or what they know, she just…becomes the embodiment of all their desires.”

That sparks a new fear—one she hadn’t even considered—one she can’t even _name_ , because it’s simply to awful to contemplate. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. Worrying accomplishes nothing. She can’t help Grant if she makes herself ill with it.

“Jemma,” Coulson says gently, and she opens her eyes. “We can’t put the collar on Lorelei if we can’t find her. So. What do you think Ward will do?”

“Grant,” she says, and her voice breaks on his name. She clears her throat as Skye and Coulson kindly pretend not to notice. “Grant has identities, currency—properties all over the world. If he still knows us, then he knows we’ll be after him. He’ll disappear with her. We’ll never find them.”

“We’ll see about that,” Coulson says, and looks at Skye. “Ward’s going to be doing anything he can to keep Lorelei off the radar. You’re the best radar we have. Find them.”

Skye nods and turns her attention to her laptop, letting go of Jemma’s hand in order to type. It makes her feel oddly bereft. Coulson is apparently finished with the conversation; he leaves the pod, and Jemma follows him without thinking.

“And me, sir?” she asks quietly.

He stops and sighs, then turns to face her.

“There’s not much you can do right now,” he says, almost apologetically. “Keep an eye on Skye; make sure she doesn’t over-exert herself. Help Fitz, if he needs it.” He takes a step closer. “When we get Ward back, he’s going to need you. So…” He shrugs. “Get ready for that. Because it won’t be easy.”

“No,” she agrees, around the lump in her throat. “I don’t imagine it will.”

He places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes it firmly. “We _are_ going to get him back, Simmons. I promise.”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

He nods once and walks away. She stands there in the corridor and watches him go. She takes a moment to breathe through the panic and anger and fear clogging her lungs and realizes, as she does so, that she’s been rubbing her wrist—her _timer_ —absently. She doesn’t know for how long.

She pulls her hand away from her wrist like she’s been burned, then hugs herself, trying to ignore the awful pit in her stomach.

Grant will be fine. He _will_. Whatever happens—whatever Lorelei does to him—he’ll be fine. She’ll make sure of it. They’ll get him back and she’ll take care of him.

In the meantime…she has more questions about this brainwashing nonsense, and she knows exactly to whom she should address them. Someone who, like herself, is most likely feeling entirely useless at the moment.

It’s time she spoke to Lady Sif.


	7. Grant: sex pollen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> safelycapricious asked: "Sex pollen, DVD prompt B (Send me the name of any fanfic I’ve written and I’ll give you a drabble from the other half of the pair’s point of view. (If it’s a split POV, you should specify the section you want.))"

(The [sex pollen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2257212/chapters/7737656) drabble.)

Grant is finding it difficult to focus on his book.

He can hear Fitz snoring in his bunk, but that’s not it. There’s soft music coming from Skye’s bunk, but that’s not it. And it’s unusually warm in the cabin—he’s actually sweating—but that’s not it either.

The problem is entirely mental. His mind just refuses to focus on the words in front of him. Instead, it repeatedly wanders downstairs, to Simmons—who must be in the lab, since she’s not up here.

He’s not thinking about anything in particular. His mind jumps from this morning—the two hours they spent alone at the scene while the rest of the team was occupied elsewhere—to this afternoon—her hands on his skin as she took out his stitches, touch just as gentle as it was when she put them in last week—to a few hours ago—the brief, childish water fight she and Skye got into while washing the dishes.

His thoughts linger there, on the laughter on her face and the water dripping down her neck, beneath her shirt, then backtrack to this afternoon, imagining how it might have gone if she weren’t wearing gloves—what it might be like to have her hands on him without medical excuse.

Well, there’s an easy way to find out.

He makes it all the way to the cargo bay before common sense reasserts itself, and he realizes there’s something wrong with this.

He’s used to wanting Simmons. He’s been wanting her for months, since the very first days of the team. But it’s never been like  _this_  before—this unending, distracting drive, the  _need_  to do something, to walk right into the lab and have her against one of those oh-so-convenient tables.

He wants her so badly he can almost feel her skin underneath his hands already, and that’s not right.

He’s very much in a look-not-touch position with Simmons. For one thing, though she usually takes a second glance or two when he’s shirtless in front of her, she’s never shown any sign of actually being _interested_  in him.

He could work around that—he’s got plenty of training and practice in seduction, and working from a basis of friendship and trust and physical attraction means it would probably only take about twenty minutes to have her moving from  _admiration_  to  _desire_ —but there’s one other, very important factor that he can’t believe he’s forgotten.

Namely, May, and the fact that he’s sleeping with her.

They’re completely casual, no strings attached, no emotions involved bed partners. Fuck buddies, to put it crudely. But just because there’s no emotion in the equation doesn’t mean she’d be happy if he slept with someone else.

May is dangerous, the one person on the team he’s not one hundred percent sure he could take down if the situation called for it, and the fact that he  _completely forgot_  about her for even a second suggests that there’s something more than just lust affecting him right now.

He should go upstairs. He should wake Coulson and say he’s been affected by something and that it’s focused on Simmons. He needs to report in and isolate himself before he loses control. His grip is already slipping.

But he can’t bring himself to leave the cargo bay. He’s so close to Simmons—he can see her through the lab’s windows, doing something with the samples she (so cheerfully) collected today—and he can’t bear the thought of getting any farther away from her than he already is.

He can’t leave. But he can’t get any closer or there’s no fucking way he’ll be able to keep from touching her.

So, as is his habit, he turns to violence to distract himself.

He doesn’t have hand wraps, but he can’t go upstairs to get them, so he’ll just have to go without. In the meantime, the heat he was feeling upstairs is even worse down here—and it must be an effect of whatever influence he’s under; it’s like lust turned up to twenty, burning through his system like a virus—and it’s starting to get to him.

He strips his shirt off, which helps a little, and then sets to distracting himself with the punching bag.

He has…minimal success.

Every hit aimed at the bag is automatic, pure habit and reflex; all of his  _attention_  is focused on thoughts of Simmons’ lips—spread in one of her bright smiles and the way she purses them at him when he tears his stitches and wrapped around her straw at dinner—and her hands—steady and sure and gentle—and her curves—pressed against him when he snatched her out of the sky and saved her from certain death—that go in endless circles.

Then his mind wanders in filthier directions, away from what he’s  _seen_  to what he could  _do_ , imagining what she’d look like spread across his bunk, naked and breathless beneath him, and all the ways he could get her there, and he has to increase the rhythm and force of his hits until he aches from it—until it  _stings_ —because it’s so tempting and he can barely  _breathe_  from how much he wants her.

He’s breathless and sweating—from the overwhelming heat and exertion both—when the realization of what the itch between his shoulder blades means filters through his awareness. He stops mid-jab in favor of catching the bag, stilling its swinging, and takes a moment to center himself. Then he glances over his shoulder, and his eyes meet Simmons’.

She’s facing him, her work abandoned, and at some point in the last—however long he’s been down here, and it’s not a good sign that he’s lost track—she removed her lab coat and her sweater. As he watches, she sways a little and places a hand against the table next to her for balance, and he’d be concerned if he couldn’t read what’s in her eyes so clearly.

Hunger.

She’s feeling the same thing he is.

Knowing that—realizing that she’s been standing there, watching him, burning with desperate lust—is pretty much the last straw. He’s through the doors and in the lab, standing in front of her, before he can second-guess himself.

“Simmons,” he says, and then stops. He’s teetering right on the edge of control, and the heat is still building and he has to curl his hands into fists to keep from touching her.

She’s just—fucking gorgeous. Staring up at him, pupils blown wide with desire, ponytail loose and messy the way it gets when she’s been tugging at it while lost in thought, sleeves rolled up to her elbows…

Her wrists are small and delicate. He could hold them in one hand. He  _wants_  to—wants to hold her still, hear her beg, hear her  _scream_ —

“Ward,” she says. Then she bites her lip, and once again he’s moving before he even means to.

He manages to stop himself before he actually touches her, but it’s a close thing. He wants her to do that again. He wants to  _know_ —whether she’s a screamer, whether she’ll gasp, whether she’ll bite down on her lip  _just like that_  to keep in whatever sounds want to escape her.

He wants to know what her fucking sinful mouth looks like when it’s bruised and swollen from kissing, when it’s wrapped around—

She sways towards him, just a little, and he’s lost. He cups her face in his hands and kisses her, and she’s soft against his hands and heat against his lips and that’s it, he stops caring about May and consequences and whatever it is that’s affecting him—

He stops caring about anything except  _this_ , about finally having her after  _months_  of wanting—

He’s wanted and wanted and wanted, and finally—with her eager and desperate approval—he takes.


	8. Grant: life was never worse (but never better)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ilosttrackofthings asked: "DVD commentary B for "life was never worse" please! :)"
> 
> [life was never worse (but never better)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4023277). You should probably read that first.

Grant has plans. He has  _lots_  of plans. He just spent eight months in a cell with nothing to amuse himself but his own mind—he’s got twelve whole alphabets of plans. Good ones, too.

Perched on the edge of a hospital bed, staring down into the face of his son—his  _son_ —he can’t remember a single one of them.

He can’t remember the last time his hands actually shook, either, but he can’t deny there’s a tremble to his fingers when he reaches to touch his son’s face again. Cameron’s nearly asleep, tiny little eyelids drooping heavily, and Grant’s heart thumps hard against his ribs at the feel of the soft, delicate skin beneath his fingers. It’s not the first time he’s touched Cameron since walking in—not the first time in the last five minutes, even—but it’s still unfamiliar.

Grant’s son is small and fragile. He needs to be protected, taken care of. He needs to be raised in safety—with love and affection. Grant’s going to make it happen, even if he has to kill half the planet to do it. He’s more than happy to provide everything his son needs.

And he doesn’t intend to do it alone.

Simmons—Jemma—is unnaturally still beside him. She’s scared. He could feel it in the tension of her thigh beneath his hand a minute ago, and he can hear it in her breathing—slightly too fast and a little unsteady—and see it in her face now. Her eyes are fixed on Cameron, but her teeth are digging into her bottom lip in a way that must be painful.

She’s scared, yeah. But she’s smart, too—smart enough not to press the issue, just now, when he made reference to his plans for SHIELD.

That was a lie; he doesn’t have plans. He  _did,_ but, again, the sight of Cameron made him forget them all.

In any case, he’ll have to come up with new ones. He’s got a new grudge to hold against SHIELD, even worse than the eight months he spent in that basement.

They kept him from his son—for the three whole days he’s been alive, for his birth, and for his mother’s pregnancy. Grant should have been here—it was his  _right_  to be here—and he won’t forgive Coulson and the others for denying him that.

He apologizes to Jemma for it—partly because he honestly regrets that she was alone, and partly just to see her reaction. He needs to know where she is and what she’s feeling (other than fear) before he can get her where he wants her to be.

“That’s all right,” she says, and her voice shakes, just a little. “It wasn’t your—” She stops herself, cutting off what was obviously a reflexive reassurance. “Well. It’s understandable.”

He has to smile. “But you think it was my fault, don’t you?”

She breathes in slowly, and his smile widens at the anger he reads in the tension of her jaw. She might be terrified, but she’s angry, too. She’s still got some spirit left in her; that’s good. However she came to be here—and boy, does he have questions about that—it hasn’t broken her.

He prefers it that way. A doormat wouldn’t make a good mother, and his son deserves only the very best of parents.

“It  _was_  your fault,” Jemma says. This time, her voice doesn’t shake. “You got yourself caught, didn’t you?”

It’s a fair point, and one that makes him laugh.

“I did,” he admits. “But don’t worry.” Reluctantly, he draws his hand away from Cameron and instead cups Jemma’s chin, forcing her to look at him. She’s been keeping her eyes on their son, and while it’s understandable—Grant’s been having a little trouble looking away, himself—he wants to make sure she’s paying attention for this part. “I won’t be leaving the two of you again.”

She’s been pale since he walked in, but at the threat—and it’s absolutely a threat, even if he’s couched it as reassurance for the benefit of her listening guard—she goes stark white.

“The two of us?” she asks.

“I never paid you the attention you deserved, back on the Bus,” he says.

It’s true. She was just another mark to him, before; someone he protected for the sake of his cover and, once, slept with for the sake of his nerves. He was angry, then, agitated over John’s play to end the Clairvoyant mess and his own inconvenient feelings for Skye, and he needed a way to wind himself down before they left.

Jemma was attractive, convenient, and willing—not to mention distracted enough by her own stress that he didn’t have to worry about keeping his cover while he fucked her. That was the only reason he chose her, and he regrets it now. She deserved better than that, than a quickie in a random storage pod.

“I’m sorry for that,” he continues. Her hair is loose around her face, and he tucks some of it behind her ear, letting the touch draw out for the simple pleasure of it. It’s been too long since he was able to do this, to just  _feel_  someone, and he enjoys the contact almost as much as he enjoys the look it puts on her face. “And I’m gonna make it up to you.”

She wouldn’t have been his first choice for the mother of his child, it’s true. But she  _is_  the mother of his child, and that means she’s his.

She tries to protest it, of course—she’s a fighter at heart—but she  _is_  the smart one, after all, and a single look gets her in line. She doesn’t dare defy him, not when it would be so easy for him to have her killed—or worse.

Before she gives in, though, she looks down at Cameron. He can see her steeling herself, using Cameron as a source of strength. It’s not fear for her own safety and freedom that’s motivating her, no—that’s not her way. She’s giving in for Cameron’s sake.

She’s a good mother already. She’s an excellent choice, even if one he didn’t mean to make.

He seals the mostly unspoken deal with a kiss—because she’s a good mother, because she’s his, because the last person he kissed was Skye and he needs to erase it, now that he’s not interested in her—and is beyond pleased when she kisses him back.

It’s a good kiss. There’s a lot of passion in Jemma, and he’s gonna have fun drawing it out of her—once they get past the inconvenient hate/fear stage.  _That’s_  not gonna be easy; he needs to keep her frightened enough that she stays in line, but he doesn’t want her  _terrified_. He needs to lay a foundation, make it a fact in her mind that disobeying him—that trying to run from him, which he knows will occur to her sooner or later—just isn’t worth it.

And now’s a good a time as any to start.

She’s looking away from him again, but not at Cameron, this time. No, her attention is fixed on the guard in the corner—a woman who’s got sympathy written all over her face.

It makes sense. If Jemma’s been under guard all these months, it’s not a surprise she would bond with her guards. She’s a friendly person who’s been mostly, if not entirely, cut off from her friends. Of course she’s made new ones out of her protectors.

It’s not a bad thing, necessarily, but it might make her brave if she thinks she can count on them for back-up. Best to nip that in the bud right now.

“Well, Candice Aldridge,” he says, once he’s gotten the guard’s name, “As much as I appreciate HYDRA’s dedication to protecting my family—” Jemma flinches. “—I think we’re good here. You can go now.”

Aldridge hesitates, looking to Jemma, and stutters something about her orders.

“You can guard the door, if you want,” he says, cutting her off. “But do it from the outside.”

She’s reluctant to go, he can see that. She doesn’t have the whole story, of course—he doesn’t know what story Jemma’s given HYDRA, but it’s obviously not the truth; all of the security around her is meant to protect her, not contain her, and if they knew anything about how the uprising went down, that wouldn’t be the case—but she obviously knows enough to not want to leave him alone with Jemma.

Whether that’s because she thinks Jemma has something to fear from him or because she just knows Jemma doesn’t  _want_  to be alone with him, he’s not sure. Either way, it doesn’t matter, because all it takes is a single raised eyebrow and her hesitation ends.

The breath shudders out of Jemma as the door closes, and he knows he doesn’t have to say a single word.

His point’s been made.


	9. Grant: black sky will burn (love pull me down)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "either pov switch or post fic epilogue for black sky will burn."
> 
> [black sky will burn (love pull me down)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3785689). You might wanna read that first.

Grant wakes as soon as Jemma shifts, but he doesn’t show it.

He remains still as her weight settles over him, keeps his breathing even and deep as she reaches for the nightstand. Feigning sleep is easy; holding back his smile is less so.

He knew this was coming. It’s why he left his knife there on the nightstand in plain view, why he let himself fall asleep before she did—to test her, to push the issue. He’s glad they’re getting it out of the way now; he was a little worried she’d draw it out, have to build up to it, and he wasn’t looking forward to days or weeks of tension.

Better to just get it over with. Once she tries to kill him—more importantly, once she realizes she  _can’t_ —she won’t try again, and he won’t need to worry about watching his back with her.

The cold, sharp edge of his knife meets his neck, and he still keeps his breathing even. Jemma’s isn’t; it shudders out of her as she tries to force herself to apply the necessary pressure to slit his throat. He gives it a few seconds, just to be sure, and then opens his eyes.

She’s pale, frozen in place, and there’s more resignation than fear on her face when she realizes he’s awake.

“You gonna kill me?” he asks, mostly just to hear what she’ll say in response.

“Killing isn’t as simple as it looks,” she says, and he smiles.

He knows exactly what this is about—knew it was coming, after all, saw the resolve in her eyes on the Bus, hours ago, when she looked in the mirror before their shower and saw the blood smeared on her face. (Coulson’s, as it happens; he doesn’t know if she realizes that, if she noticed the blood that was on his hands when he cupped her cheeks and kissed her over their former commanding officer’s corpse.)

But even though he already knows the why, he lets her tell him, pretends it’s news—lets her try again, even.

She can’t do it. Jemma just doesn’t have it in her to end a life…especially not his.

He gives it until she starts crying, then gently disarms her and returns the knife to the nightstand. He has to shift her back a bit to sit up, but once he’s upright he cuddles her close, rubbing her back and offering soothing words as she sobs her heart out.

She cried in the base, too—wept, really. He had to drag her out of there; she kept trying to save every life he ended, and after the fifth corpse he hauled her away from, it was just easier to keep hold of her. It left him one-handed, but that wasn’t a concern; once May was dead, there was no one in the base who stood any chance of stopping him, even with his reach limited.

She was in tears the whole way through. She kissed him back when he kissed her after killing Coulson, but she was crying while she did it. She cried while she begged him to spare Fitz. And she cried on the Bus when he dragged her onto it and set a course for HYDRA.

She’s been crying all day, but this is the first chance he’s had to offer comfort, and he smiles to himself as she accepts it. She’s crying over him—over what he did—but she’s still clinging to him.

And she’s here. He had to drag her through that base to keep her from trying to undo his work, not because she didn’t want to come with him. She tried to stop, to save lives, but she never tried to get away from him. She followed him willingly, let him touch her, let him—begged him to—fuck her, again and again and again, on the way here.

She’ll stay. She’s gonna work for HYDRA, and she’s gonna hate every second of it, but she won’t say a word against it, because she wants to be here—with him.

She’s his—body, mind, and soul—and she’s not going anywhere.


	10. Grant: in the morning (you'll just hate yourself)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Can you do B for in the morning (you'll just hate yourself)?"
> 
> [in the morning (you'll just hate yourself)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3519587). You might wanna read that first.

Grant is having a pretty amazing—if bizarre—day.

It’s been months since he last saw his wife and even longer since he last touched her, and he wasn’t figuring on that changing anytime soon. He’s got a plan to fix it, of course—to win her back over—but it’s the long game: he expected it to take  _years_.

Yet here she is. In his cell—in his  _bed_ —spread out beneath him, arching into his touch, voice gone high and thin as she begs for more.

He’s beyond happy to give it to her.

He  _knows_  Jemma, knows every inch of her body and exactly where and how to touch her to drive her insane, and he does. He kisses and bites her skin, enjoys the taste of her, the feel of her, the sounds she makes—she’s always been responsive, and that hasn’t changed a bit.

He gets lost in it, a little—in the scent of her, in her wet heat and already wrecked voice—but who could blame him? She’s so gorgeous, skin flushed, heart racing—pupils blown so wide that if he didn’t know what color her eyes are, he’d never be able to guess—and it’s been  _months_.

And he’s not alone in being strongly affected: she’s lost in it, too, half-mad with desperation in a way that makes satisfaction bloom in his chest. Some of that might be the drug, sure, but most of it is  _him_.

There’s something about this that he’s not being told. She’s been dosed with something, yeah, and she needs to work it off through sex or she’ll die. That’s true enough, for all that he was pretty convinced, right up to the moment Coulson dropped the barrier, that it was all a really weird joke.

But not everything he was told is true. There’s gotta be a reason she’s turning to  _him_  for this. He hates to consider it—even the thought makes his fingers itch for a gun or a knife or a goddamn piece of paper, anything he can use as a weapon, because  _fuck no_ —but there have to be other men in this base. Men who care about her, who’d leap at the chance—the  _excuse_ —to fuck her, to spare her asking him.

Jemma’s made her feelings on him—the real him—perfectly clear, and he hasn’t had the chance to fix that, yet.

So there has to be more to this story.

He couldn’t get it out of Coulson, but that’s fine. He’s got Jemma right here, already blissed out of her mind, and he’s barely even started. He’s sure, with the right kind of persuasion, he can get all the answers he wants from her.

But that can wait. He’s got time.

First, he’s gonna take advantage of this opportunity he’s been handed. She can call him Ward (but _Grant_  is the name she’s screaming, and that’s its own kind of victory) and stop wearing his ring (but that tan line is really recent) and run away from him, never coming down to see him no matter how often he demands her presence, but she can’t hide from this.

There’s no telling how long it’s gonna be before he gets to touch her again. So he’s damn well gonna make sure she can’t forget this. Can’t forget how well he knows her, how good he makes her feel—can’t forget that, for whatever reason, out of this whole damn base, she’s down in his cell with  _him_ , begging  _him_ , screaming  _his_  name.

Maybe she still hates him, hasn’t forgiven him for kidnapping her and Skye, for holding her prisoner and turning against the team. Maybe she’s still angry, still insisting they aren’t married anymore.

But tomorrow, when she looks at herself—when she looks at the marks he’s leaving on her skin—she’ll remember this, remember the way she’s twisting her hands in his hair and bucking up against him and sobbing out his name, and she won’t be able to deny the truth.

She’s still his.


End file.
